Chéris-moi
by KarnagePhoenix
Summary: Middle of the night, Louisiana. Sam is thinking. Freedom always comes at a price.


Hi guys !

French author here. And this is my very first English fanfic. I'm very excited but also a little scared. Hope you'll enjoy my work. Don't be too hard on me, but please, point out my mistakes and errors so I can improve !

Thanks a lot and have fun (I hope )

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The weather in Louisiana is hot and wet. Sweat clinging to your damp clothes and making your skin hitch. Sam is thinking. Hair sticking at the base of his neck. Cicada are singing outside. The nigh is never really silent in Louisiana, especially not here in the Green Road Motel where walls are thin as paper.

Sam is thinking.

The fan is working but it's not providing any release from the hot and damp air of the room.

The clock shows four a.m and a streetlamp baths the room in a dim light but Sam can't really make out anything in the dark. But he knows there are two hotplates (one isn't working anymore), one coffee maker full of scale, one old couch burnt by cigarettes, two beds. There is a smell… like cold tobacco, bleach and regina pizza…

On the other bed someone is slumped. Sprawled, face against the comforter, legs bowed strangely. _My brother_, Sam thinks.

Sam wishes he could express so many things. It's foolish, but he keeps reminding a talk he had some weeks ago with Mr Stevenson, eighty-three, after his wife died killed by an angry ghost. The old couple had a heated relationship, they couldn't really stand each other anymore. But it was with a trembling voice and teary eyes that Mr Stevenson had say words that are echoing right now in Sam's head.

_You always realize too late how lucky you are to have someone to care for you._

It's just some trivial thought and Sam is used to grieving people. Used to their sorrow and their tormented eyes. Usually he has no problem to build a wall to protect himself from their pain and to forget them once the case is solved.

But tonight he feels some unusual feelings in his stomach, heavy and spreading in his core. Tonight the song of the cicadas is not loud enough to silent his thoughts.

_My brother…_, he keeps thinking inside his head, and this word resonates strangely, kind of always have. It bears so many different meanings, it's not _hollow. _It bears a weight Sam is ready to willingly carry through hell and back.

_Dean. _

There are a lot of different words, emotions and memories associated to this name.

First of all, it's a voice, deep and rusky. A crooner's voice, Sam thinks. A voice sometime excited, distraught or raging mad.

Then it's a calloused grip on his shoulder, a grip Sam knows strong but kind or tense and desperate, sometime it's an iron grip, merciless.

And then, Sam says to himself, a scent. Old leather which reminds him all the nights he spent in the back of the car, at a time he was still short enough to fit under his dad's coat. This scent… It reminds him of the old books' covers from Bobby's house, and the car seats. It's the smell of home. It's also the smell of sweat, the one trickling on your body after hours on the road and a rough hunt. It's the smell of Dean when he slumps on the couch and sight heavily while drinking beer. Sam knows this smell intimately after years of promiscuity. It has something particular which reminds him of his father and his own smell.

But then, there is the taste of a cheeseburger laying in grease or the taste of takeout pizza. The taste of strong coffee served on the road. The taste of cheeps beer at the end of the day.

And of course, there is a smile. Or rather, a myriad of smiles. The one rippling the corners of his eyes. The one which announces a laugh and shake his whole body like an earthquake. The one he saves for late nights in bars. The one never reaching his eyes, too bitter and cynical. The one stained with sorrow and a nostalgia Sam would like to erase. And then, then, faltering and a little bit timid, the one he never wears except for Sam. This one is hiding a part of doubt and fear, just like the peephole on a door looking out onto darker and solitary depth. This one… Sam doesn't know if he cherishes it or abhors it.

Among this whirlwind of images and feelings accumulating in his head he can picture his brother, the hundredth of parts shaping him, the hundredth of memories he shares with him, giggles, bitterness, acrid words spilling from his lips to his face of thousand constellations. Or the sweet ones and all the laughter.

Sam is thinking.

To care for you.

Sam knows. He knows he had built _his_ freedom from the ruins of his brother's. Each stone he had raise, it had been a stone caging his brother in his role. And Dean ? Dean had let him. Of course he had. And with a pride only Big Borther can feel. _Stanford Sammy ! Standford ! _he had said, his rough voice trembling from emotion, sincerity of his joy evident on his face, on his eyes.

Dean… always the good role. The good soldier. How many times had Sam been thinking these words ? How many times did he tell them ? How many times did he use his words, the ones he masters so well, in order to hurt while Dean sometime has difficulties to read some syllables and words.

But Sam especially remembers endless evenings in cheaps motel room, so similar to the one they are staying right now. He remembers Dean burning his hands on the hotplates too high for a eight years old. He remembers cheaps cans making him a little sick in the stomach an all these times when Dean's voice had say with a strained smile _Don't worry Sammy, already eat something' ! _

Sam thinks about the way his brother uses to eat, devouring his plate as if food might disappear. He feels a pinch in his heart while he laid in the dark of the room.

Sam considers his brother differently now. He's an adult now. He sees Deans smothered by responsibilities he shouldn't have have to carry. _Dean, help Sam with his homeworks. Dean, here are thirty dollars, I'll be back in two weeks. Dean don't forget the weapons inventory and the cleaning. Dean I don't wanna eat bean ! I want Froot Loops ! Dean I don't understand maths… Dean, when is dad coming back ? _

Sam thinks about all these times when he had blame him. _By the way, you could have leave to, no ? Why did you choose dad huh ? _

And of course, Sam knows the answer to this one. Dean had always paid the price of Sam's freedom. And Sam understands now that each of Dean's decision had been for Sam's sake. For _Sammy_. Every each of his decision, except maybe for one. The one where he showed up that night, in Palo Alto. Sam had often blame him for this one.

Now… He remembers their trip to Heaven when Dean told him _The first thing I saw Sammy, it was you. _

His stomach twists. Privileges of one build sacrifices of others…

Thing is… Sam had psychology courses at Stanford. He knows that the love Dean feels for him, yet true, is tainted with something else. Tainted with an imperative implanted in his mind since his four year old. That visceral need to take care of his little brother is born from harsh eyes their father had and from necessity. He told Dean that, once… And he regretted. Especially when he caught a glimpse of Dean big eyes, all green, open wide from incredulity before they turned dark and sad. When he saw his jaw tightened and his face blanched. Sam knows pain enough to recognize it.

Sam thinks.

_You always realize too late how lucky you are to have someone to care for you._

Sam have always had Dean. And the he had Jess. Dean… Dean had their dad and their mom before she died. The death of Mary Winchester let John Winchester missing some parts of himself. He loved his sons. More than his life since he gave it away without hesitation for them. But the endless weeks of absence ? Nights spent in graveyard ? Late night drunk on the tile of the bathroom ? Irreconcilable with bedtime stories, hugs after a nightmare and help for homework.

Sam always had Dean. And then he had Jess. Dean had their parents before they disappeared. And then he had Sam, before Sam himself left, one bus ticket in hand, a bag full of holes, and not a glimpse back at Dean who gave him all his saving, hiding it in his bag's pocket.

Sam examines his brother on the bed next to him. Face flatten on the pillow, hand clutching his favorite gun. His shoulders lift with each of his breath and Sam follows the curve of his spine, of his hips. Suddenly he thinks about all these nights, when he was curled next to Jess… Sleeping peacefully while his brother had half sleep night, probably wondering who would care about him if something happens.

Sam get to his feet and crosses the room to dean's bed. It's hot here in Louisiana, so Dean is not sleeping under the cover. Sam just sits here and place his hand on Dean shoulder blade when groggy green eyes open and stare at him.

_Sammy ?_ his voice is hoarse and sleepy, it's just a murmur.

Sam doesn't answer. He let his hand slide along Dean's back. He can feel some scars on sweaty skin. He wants to put his head on that skin and close his eyes, but he doesn't. Dean turns to face him, his hair sticking funnily. Sam takes advantage of the change and let his body fall entirely on the bed, where his brother's has let a warm spot. He lays down, his feet sticking out (he's so tall…). Dean doesn't ask any question, doesn't say anything, he's fighting against sleep and his eyelid are already shutting over his fair eyelashes.

Sam moves closer to him, he can smell Dean. The smell of nights spent in the car, of evenings on ratty couch and the smell of Dean's smile, the one he saves just for Sam. Faltering and a little bit timid. A smell quite similar to his own and which reminds him of home. He takes him in his arms softly, right against his heart. Dean is already asleep, his breath, hot and damp, lets a wet mark on Sam's skin.

The fan is working lazily, cicadas are singing. The night is never really silent in Louisiana.

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Thank you for reading.

Please leave a review and share you impression ! Don't hesitate to share advice too, it'll help me.

Bye,

Karnage.


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